Somebody That I Used To Know
by Ricechex
Summary: Post Reichenbach Fall, so spoilers will be evident. Basically, Sherlock comes home. John deals. Hopefully better than I've described it here. Reviews/comments/constructive crits welcomed and appreciated. Hope you enjoy!
1. Prologue: Ghost

Carefully, so carefully, John Watson packed away the last few beakers and test tubes. Wrapped in bubble wrap, placed on foam sheets. John knew it was silly but he couldn't throw them out, and he couldn't donate them. Not yet, at least. But he was getting there.

His phone beeped. Text from Lestrade. [_How are you?_] He closes his phone and decides he'll reply later. He and Lestrade are still not on the best of terms, though Donovan's transfer and Anderson's resignation had helped. Lestrade had come to him and told him he was going on record with his superiors - he still believed in Sherlock's innocence.

John sighs and grabs his phone. [_Fine. You? Anything?_] He sends it and closes the phone again. He knows Lestrade's hands were tied on that whole mess. Lestrade had never wanted that. He had believed. He had always believed.

John tapes the box shut as his phone beeps again. [_Nothing yet. Something'll turn up._] John closes his phone and carries the box into Sherlock's room. From across the flat he hears his phone beep again. He holds his breath for a moment, setting the box down with the others. Lestrade really can wait this time. This is his moment now.

He sits on the bed and stares. Boxes line the walls. Furniture pushed aside to make stacking easier. The bed has been stripped - linens tucked away. Boxes labeled neatly. John smiled. FOr all that Sherlock was brilliant, he was not a particularly neat man. Oh, he had his books on the shelves and his sock index, but overall he'd been nearly hopless when it came to organization. From the kitchen his phone beeped again. He got up and walked out of the room.

His phone was still on the kitchen table. The whole room looked so different now, without all of SHerlock's experiments everywhere. He could probably make a decent cup of tea or breakfast now. He sat down and looked at nothing. His phone beeped once more.

"I swear, Lestrade, you're almost as bad as _him_ these days." John opened his phone again. He stared at the screen, eyes widening. The phone fell from his hand and he bolted from the kitchen. Down the stairs. The door flew open once he grabbed it.

"Hello, John."

John Watson stood in the doorway to 221B Baker Street, staring at a ghost.

"Sherlock." He felt breathless. The ghost smiled.


	2. Chapter 1: Don't Leave

"You could let me in." John watched Sherlock smile slightly. Sherlock. Who was a ghost. _Should_ have been a ghost, but instead was here, in his best suit. Shirt so white it was blue. Scarf and coat and cheekbones and six feet tall.

"How..."

"I'll explain it all, if you-"

John's fist connected with Sherlock's cheek. Splash of crimson where the skin split. _We've done this before. _John shakes his hand out. _Still feels damn good, too._

"John!" Sherlock's bent over - only just, though - a hand to his face. Staring at John. Staring at him like he'd never met him before. Betrayal, hurt, and a hint - a hint - of understanding flash in those eyes.

"Get inside." John can't say anything else as he turns around and storms in.

"John?" Mrs. Hudson comes out of her own flat, concern written all over her face. "John, what's gong on? I thought I heard..."

"I don't know." He glances back. Sherlock steps slowly into the flat and closes the door behind him.

"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson clutches her chest. _This is too much for her. I should have punched him harder._

"Mrs. Hudson. It's good to see you." Calm. Soft. Sherlock has no emotions right now. Just a bleeding face and a damaged reputation. Mrs. Hudson rushes over, arms encircling Sherlock's torso. He hugs her back as she cries. "It's alright, Mrs. Hudson."

"Sherlock, how is this even possible? Oh Sherlock!" Dark spot on his shirt blooms as she buries her face. John hopes she smears her make-up all over it. Sherlock looks at John. Helpless in the arms of this tiny woman. John sees it. And he won't help. _You did this. You fix it._

"It's a long story."

"One I expect to hear very soon." It's the first thing John's been able to say since Sherlock stepped inside. His arms are crossed, face blank. Not good. John's face is never blank - not to Sherlock. But when he looks at John now, he sees nothing but a blank slate. Slowly, the veneer peels back, revealing layer upon layer of rage and pain.

"You go on upstairs, I'll bring you some food." Mrs. Hudson gives him one last squeeze, like she's afraid he'll stop being real any moment now.

"No need." Sherlock watches John as he says this. No change in his expression. Nothing that indicates he'll go upstairs with Sherlock. Nothing that says he'll listen to a word Sherlock has to say.

"Nonsense." Mrs. Hudson waves off any excuses. "I've got a roast in the oven, we'll have dinner tonight, the three of us."

"Sounds delightful."

"You boys go talk. I expect there's a lot you need to explain, Sherlock Holmes."

"I believe you're right, Mrs. Hudson."

John turns away once she's gone and starts up the stairs, not waiting for Sherlock. He walks into his flat - their flat - and takes a deep breath. The door closes behind him and he turns.

"How dare you walk back in here! How dare you make me think..." Sherlock stands quietly, hands behind his back. He lets John yell, lets him rage. He's earned it. "Why, Sherlock? Why the secrecy? The lies? I visited your grave EVERY DAY. I would sit there and talk to your bloody headstone like it was you! I needed you, and you left!" John's hands are clenched. Shaking. Sherlock readies himself for the blow that never comes because John is shaking so badly now he can barely stand. "You were my best friend in the world, Sherlock! I deserved better than that!"

"I am sorry."

"You're SORRY?"

"I don't have any other way to say it, John."

"You could try explaining, you moron!" John's eyes were watering, but he didn't care. His hands were itching to punch that passive face again. He wanted Sherlock to feel the pain he'd felt these long months. That ugly part of him - the violent, horrible, _hateful_ part of him that he kept hidden so well and only let out on special occasions - rose up. _After all, this is a special occasion._ It whispered in his ear; the devil on his shoulder. Odd that it now had Sherlock's voice, velvet and cold and so terrible it was wonderful.

"Please know that every moment I was away was hard-"

"No! No, you don't understand what was _hard_, Sherlock, you just don't. Watching them lower that coffin? Seeing your name on that headstone? Every Sunday with Mrs. Hudson, having tea and putting flowers on your grave? _That_ was hard, Sherlock. _That_ was painful. It was horrible. And we did it because we loved you, and we missed you, and now you walk in here and tell me being away was hard for YOU?" His hand flew - he couldn't stop it. Sherlock dodged once, twice. Third hit connected with his stomach and he fell into John. John, who was still trying to sing his fists at him.

"You left me!" Another hit connected - though only a glancing blow as Sherlock twisted, his arms coming up. He reached around John - embracing him. John's hands beat futily against Sherlock's back. "You left me." Hands stopped flailing and started grabbing Sherlock's coat. "You left me." His voice was growing hoarse. Sobs ripped through him as Sherlock held him.

"I am sorry, John." They stood there, holding each other for several moments. John composed himself. Pushed away from Sherlock.

"So. You're back."

"I've taken care of what I had to before I returned. I'm sorry it took so long."

"So now what? You come back and we go about our lives?"

"It will probably be a bit more work than that but overall that was my plan."

John stared at Sherlock like he wasn't sure what to do.

"And where do I fit into all of this? Do I still have a place in your life?"

"Of course you do, why wouldn't you?" Sherlock's eyes crinkled. He wasn't sure where this line of questioning came from.

"What am I supposed to do now?" John took a deep breath.

"What does that mean?"

"I don't... I just don't know, Sherlock."

"Don't know what?" Sherlock could feel it. He hadn't felt fear - real fear - in a long time.

John took several breaths. "If I can stay? I just really don't know if I can stay here, right now."

"Please, John..." Sherlock looked like a man with nothing left but this one thing. His bleeding face, his ruined shirt, even his scarf hanging off kilter and his coat looking a bit worse for wear. All of it was nothing in the face of this one thing. "Please, just. Just don't leave. Me. Don't leave me."

John was silent for a moment, staring at this man - this man he had loved, had been willing to do anything for (and often had). A million promises leapt through his mind.

_Of course I'll never leave you - why would I leave you? You're everything to me, Sherlock, you have been since that first case, damn you, and you never saw it, never saw how I saw you or how I looked at you, you brilliant idiot, you never realized that I could never leave you no matter what I thought, and all those times I stormed off I wanted you to chase me, wanted you to want me the way I wanted you, why'd you have to be so damned smart and not see me there, pouring my heart and soul out for you..._

But all that he said was, "You left."

"I had to."

"Don't." John's hands came up. Defensive position, warding him away. "Just don't. Do not think you can walk back in here and give me _that_."

"John, I did it for you."

"Yeah, course you did. And you couldn't ever be bothered to pick up the phone, not once, to call or text or bloody well email me to say that you were alive."

"Obviously," was Sherlock's only reply.

John stared at him for a minute. "You left." He couldn't stop saying that.

"I came back."

"That's your best line? You came back? How cliché, Sherlock. And how not at all like you."

"It's all I have." Sherlock watched him. "All I can give you." John looked down at his shoes. Without looking up again, he turned and walked into his bedroom, slamming the door. And Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, who was always in control of his emotions, sat down at the rather empty kitchen table and cried.

# # #

It was one hour and twelve minutes later when John re-emerged from his room. Sherlock had migrated from the table to the couch, sitting as still as could be, deep in thought. John didn't so much as glance at him as he walked into the kitchen and put the kettle on.

He reached into the cupboard and grabbed some tea, scooping it into the pot. He hadn't even realized what he was doing. _Sherlock's favorite. I haven't had any since... _He took a deep breath, and decided that this was the only thing he could do right now, to let Sherlock know that he was alright. He was angry, of course. He was hurt, and he was frustrated, and he was so, so angry. But he was alright.

"That wasn't necessary."

John turned to see Sherlock standing in the entryway between the kitchen and living room. Sherlock nodded at the tea.

"Who said any of it's for you?" John turned and put the tin back in the cupboard. Sherlock smiled slightly but said nothing.

John went back to work, readying the cups, gathering the sugar. It felt like hours had passed before Sherlock finally spoke.

"Have you considered my request?"

_You idiot of course I have, you never had to ask, how can you be so fantastically brilliant and observant without ever seeing the truly obvious about me, how have you never picked up on the clues? _John stared at the kettle, the water starting to boil within, and he felt his ire rising. _You're so damn smart but can't see just what you do to me._ "Give me one good reason." Sherlock never gave in immediately; John couldn't either. Not this time. The kettle's shrill whistle signaled.

"I can apologize for the rest of my life, but you know it won't change what I had to do."

"Right." The water swirled the tea around the pot, and he set the timer before turning, resting against the counter, hands gripping the edge like it was the only thing keeping him from flying at the man standing before him.

Sherlock slumped, just a little, against the doorway. "Please know, that it was all done for you. I had to leave to make you safe."

"SAFE?" John startled himself as well as Sherlock. He hadn't meant to yell again, but now... now the beast was unleashed, and he couldn't stop it, couldn't rein it in if he wanted to. And by God, he did not want to. "I'm an ADULT, Sherlock! And you don't get to decide what makes me safe, or what makes me unsafe. I thought we were partners in this! That means you tell me just what the HELL is going on! You don't make me think..." He stood there, panting, blinking furiously. "You don't kill yourself off in front of me, you just don't... You don't do that, Sherlock." His voice was quieter now, cracking when he could no longer hold in his emotions. "You don't just up and leave someone and then come back, asking them to stay." Sherlock straightened and crossed the room to stand in front of him. John looked up, not wiping at his face, not pinching his nose, not doing anything to hide the hurt in his eyes. Sherlock stared at him for a moment before doing something neither of them expected.

He leaned in quickly and kissed John, his hands coming up to frame John's face as their lips met. Sherlock pulled back quickly, looking lost in his own head. His hands drop. He backs away one, two, three steps. He keeps watching John, looking for anything that would tell him he'd gone too far.

The timer buzzes.

They stood there for a moment, frozen in each other's gaze. Finally, Sherlock takes one, two, three steps forward. He reaches out - John flinches slightly - and turns off the timer. "Tea's ready." His voice is barely above a whisper. John nods. He tries not to see the hurt and rejection in Sherlock's eyes. He had flinched. He - John Hamish Watson. An army doctor with nerves of steel. He'd killed people. And he had never, ever, flinched away from Sherlock Holmes before.

John watched his flatmate carry the tea tray out to the living room. Watched him set it on the small table by the chair John had claimed as his own his first time in 221B Baker Street. Watched him pour 2 cups. He doctored his own with a splash of cream before setting it back on it's saucer.

That was all he could stand before he was crossing both rooms and grabbing Sherlock's arm. He spun him around, yanked on his shirt, and crushed their lips together. Sherlock leaned into him, his arms wrapping around John.

"You left me," John mumbled between kisses. "You left me all alone."

"Never again." Sherlock's hands roamed John's back. "I will never leave-"

"Shut up." John all but growled at him now. Sherlock happily obliged.

The tea grew colder as they stood there, tangled in each other's arms.

"I couldn't leave you." John is breathing heavily, their foreheads resting against each other as they catch their breath. "Even after... I tried, Sherlock, I tried to move past you. And I couldn't, damn you, I couldn't move on, and I couldn't get you out of my head, and dammit, _you left me_."

"If there is anything I can do." Sherlock refuses to take his eyes off of John. "To make you believe that I never wanted to leave you. Anything I can say..." John pulls away a little and stared at the man in his arms - the only man he'd ever felt this way about, the only man he'd ever fallen in love with. He pulled back a bit and took a deep breath, his arms releasing Sherlock, who quickly snatched his own arms back. Hands clutched together in their customary spot behind his back, fingers ticking off a musical score only he could hear. John didn't have to see them there to know. It was Sherlock. John just knew.

"Tell me."

Sherlock cocks his head to the right, diagnosing John. Large, bruise-like bags under his eyes. Tired - lack of sleep, anxiety. Probably the PTSD coming back. Feelings of deep betrayal, not entirely unfounded but still hurtful to see. He's been taking rather poor care of himself - clothes are baggier than usual - not eating enough. Hair is a bit shaggier than normal, fingernails not trimmed or scrubbed. Not getting his hair cut regularly is either because he's been growing it out on purpose but more likely because he's been forgetting about making his appointments. More silver in it than Sherlock had remembered but it suited John well. His hands were chapped - manual labor? Possible, but unlikely with his fingernails growing out as they were. Better solution said he'd been at the computer a lot, hands drying out and no cream to put on them. Thumbing through various journals and the like trying to uncover something - anything - that would help him either cope with or disprove Sherlock's death. Thoughts of personal care and grooming were the lowest of his concerns. Sexual tension underlying everything about him, but he wasn't worrying about girlfriends or boyfriends or fuck buddies. He'd been _pining_.

"Well?"

Sherlock looks into John's eyes again. "Tell you what?"

"Don't play dumb with me, Sherlock, you're not very good at it." John turns around, taking a deep breath as he paces a moment. He stops behind his chair, hands on the back of it. Defensive position - he's expecting a rebuff. Expecting Sherlock to clam up and tell him nothing. Expecting Sherlock to leave him again even if he never leaves this flat for the rest of his natural life.

"Alright." John perks up, looking mildly shocked. "Tell me where to start."

# # #

"Molly."

"Yes."

"Molly Hooper."

"I believe I've already said yes."

John stared at him, feeling conflicted. "You trusted Molly Hooper with this. Over _me_."

"Molly is... resourceful. And I needed someone on the inside who could-"

"Who could help you fake your death," John finished for him. He pushed himself back in his seat, his legs crossed at the knees. Deep breath. He looked down at his hands, wringing in his lap. One more deep breath. Stupid therapist, with breathing exercises that work. He doesn't want to be in control right now. He wants to rage and scream at this man, this brilliant idiot who sits across from him and tells him just how he outwitted the world.

"Molly _knew_."

"Knew? Well of course she knew, she's your 'someone on the inside'."

"No." Sherlock steepled his hands in front of his mouth. "She knew. She could see me. See right through me."

"See right through you how?"

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. "She could see right through me to my heart. She knew how I felt."

"Everyone knew how you felt, Sherlock, _Jesus_, that poor girl. She knew you thought of her as nothing, and she still helped you."

"She knew I was in love with you."

John paused midway through readjusting himself in his chair and glanced up at that.

"She knew that I watched you whenever I wasn't otherwise engaged. She knew that I looked at you in a way I had never looked at anyone else. She knew I wanted you to look at me." Sherlock's eyes never left John's. "She knew that despite my resolutions to never allow emotional entanglements into my life I was unable to... resist you."

John exhaled. "You never... You never once said..."

"You found yourself slogging through meaningless relationships that you tried to convince yourself were going anywhere but down the drain. Had I stepped in you would have left forever. And I couldn't have that, John."

That was when John launched himself out of his chair and at Sherlock, nearly toppling them both over the back of the chair and to the floor, kissing him as though his life depended on it.

"Everything, Sherlock."

"Everything."

"Tell me everything that's happened."

"Might I have one request first?"

"Anything." John rasped, tears flowing as he kissed Sherlock's jaw line.

"Promise. Promise me, John." Sherlock pulled away just a bit and looked at John, really looked at him. Raw emotion flooded his face - he could feel it. It felt odd, but not entirely unpleasant.

"I'm yours, Sherlock. I'll be by your side until you send me away."

"I will never send you away, John." And then they were on their feet, and neither knew how it happened, but they were suddenly in John's room, on John's bed, and John could only think that it was about time, and Sherlock reached out a tentative hand as he pulled John's shirt from it's still moderately tucked state. Expanse of flesh - well toned abdomen. He was still working out. Still keeping parts of himself in shape. Why? Sherlock had no time to deduce that before John flipped them over and yanked at the button-up Sherlock was wearing. Fabric and thread gave way as John tore at it.

"I want this," he whispered against Sherlock's mouth after diving in for another violent kiss. "I've wanted this for so long."

"John..."

"Please, Sherlock, please don't send me away right now." _You just said you wouldn't send me away you bastard, don't you dare try it now._

"John, slow down." John took a deep breath and pushed off of Sherlock, sitting up. Sherlock pulled himself to a sitting position and moved to sit next to John.

"I'm sorry."

"No," came Sherlock's response. "I'm sorry. I've never-"

"I know. _"The Virgin."_ Wasn't that the nickname-"

"I've had sex." Sherlock sounded almost indignant. John turned and looked at him in astonishment.

"Wait, you've... really?" Sherlock looked even more miffed at John's tone.

"You think me incapable of curiosity and experimentation?" One eyebrow arched inquiringly. John snorted at that.

"I suppose you went at it with all your usual grace and decorum."

It was Sherlock's turn to laugh, his chuckle bringing John's laughter back. "It's complicated. Very. I was much younger."

"Hard to imagine you as a teenager in the back of your mum's car."

"It was at Uni."

"What was her name?"

Sherlock took in a long, steady breath through his nose. Eyes closed, face calm and passive. _I wish I didn't have to tell you this, John, I wish I could spare you this one more thing._ "James Moriarty."

"You." John's voice seemed to die after that. He swallowed a few times before it worked again. "You knew Moriarty. Biblically, even. Well, that's... fantastic."

"He wasn't Moriarty then," Sherlock said. They were sitting against the headboard of John's bed now, still disheveled from their entanglement.

"Who was he then?"

"James Troy. James. Amir. Troy."

"And you never thought... maybe I should know you two had history?"

"I didn't recognize him at first, and once I did... I found I didn't want you to think less of me. It's complicated."

"Enlighten me, then."


	3. Chapter 2: Disadvantage

"I don't know if I can."

"The bloody hell you can't." John's voice is rough - Sherlock notices, like he notices everything. Desire, anger, frustration, so many emotions. _Emotions get in the way_. _Caring is not an advantage_. He's known that forever, it seems.

"John, this is complicated. I wish I could just tell you everything. Just lay it out. And they we could have Mrs. Hudson come for dinner and everything would be fine, we wouldn't have a care in the world. Happily ever after and all that." Deep breath. _There are no happily ever afters. There is nothing but pain and heartbreak and I wish I didn't care at all sometimes. Caring makes it harder._

"You really are a piece of of work, aren't you?" Sherlock looked confused, and maybe a little hurt. John shook his head. "You walk in, make me feel like I haven't in... in _years_, Sherlock do you understand that? And then you drop this on me and expect me to be fine without an explanation."

"I don't expect you to be fine. What I _need_ is for you to understand."

"Understand what, exactly?"

Sherlock looks over at him. "To understand that what I need is to find the right time to give you everything you want."

John shook his head. Hands ran through his hair - still blonde but greying in that mature yet attractive way. Skin around his eyes was pulled tight - he was scrunching up his face. _Ah. He wants to hit me again. Typical_. Sherlock looked away, closing his eyes and letting his brain wander - Brahms, Concerto in D major. It had been his grandmother's favorite. He would play for her every time she visited, and she would hug him tightly and tell him he was loved so, and he would wonder why. He would hug back and tell her he loved her too, and he would not understand just what it all meant. Even now, he wasn't sure he unstood it any better.

John shifted next to him. The bed creaked, then moved again. Sherlock opened his eyes. Standing at the foot of the bed, John had his hands on his hips.

"Sherlock." John kept his head down. Eyes on the ground.

Sherlock closed his eyes. The devil on his shoulder prods him with his umbrella. _Never made it to the courtship, even, and breaking up already._

John still wasn't looking at him. "What I need - and _want_ - is to know what happened. You can't just shut me out now." Sherlock opened his eyes again and watched him. He felt like a worm spotting a bird about to dive.

"Well, if we're discussing what we need and want right now, may I say that what _I_ need is the be able to come to you in my own time, when my head is clear. And what I _want_ is for you to respect that need." _There. That's how adults do these things, is it not?_ He can hear Mycroft's voice. _Whoever told you you were an adult, Sherlock? _The devil's umbrella stabbed at him several more ignores him.

Instead of listening to the voice in his head, he watches John - focuses on John so intently he thought the man might burst into flame at any moment; a bug trapped under glass in the sun.

After several long, silent minutes, John nods. "You're right." Sherlock's eyebrows perk. "You were honest with me. Told me who he was. I have no right to demand anything more."

"You have every right."

"No, Sherlock, no. I don't. I want to - oh, God, do I want to. I want to pin you down and force answers out of you. I mean... your first sexual partner was the man who tried to blow me up and then made you jump off a roof..."

"As I said - complicated."

John nods. Sherlock watches him a moment more before he said anything else. "So, where do we go from here?"

John laughed. "I really have no idea, Sherlock. But we'll work that out soon enough." Sherlock nodded. John looked at the bed. Considering options. He could climb back onto the bed, sit next to Sherlock. They'd kiss again, hands would roam, shirts and trousers would be off before they knew it. More roaming hands - exploring, memorizing, _learning_. Sherlock would be unsure; John would take charge. Sherlock would let him, and he would love it, would love seeing that side of John come out. He'd be thorough and attentive and gentle and careful until neither of them could stand it anymore. They'd laugh, they'd kiss, they'd cuddle after. They'd shower and dress and have Mrs. Hudson up for dinner, and she'd fuss and fret over the both of them and tell them they were far too thin but oh how lucky they were able to admit their feelings because in this world there's too much sorrow, too much sadness, and it needs more love and happiness. The three of them would talk about Sherlock's time away as though it had been ages ago when he came home so that they wouldn't cry because it had only just been this afternoon at half twelve.

But John doesn't climb back onto the bed, and he doesn't move from where he is. He stands there, waiting, watching. Sherlock finally gets up and moves towards him, slowly and carefully. Like approaching a wounded animal - even a domesticated one will bite if scared or hurt badly enough. John watched him - his eyes looked distant and sad, and Sherlock wanted more than anything to erase those feelings and be able to look into John's eyes and see love and forgiveness. But that would take time, and he knew that.

"John, I..." He pursed his lips. John turned so that the two of them were facing each other full on, very close and very intimate and Sherlock was suddenly keenly aware of all the things he didn't know about John and what John had been doing while he had been gone. John still looked like John. Still sounded like, still walked like, still dressed like and smelled like and made tea like John. But there in his eyes, Sherlock could see something new - something that hadn't been there before his fall from the roof of St. Bart's.

"Yes?" John sounded pleasant and normal and just so very John-like. But all Sherlock could think about was what that new quality in John might be.

"I want to know what you've done... since I left." John quirked an eyebrow but said nothing for a moment.

"Coffee?" he finally asked. Sherlock peered at him harder, eyes like slits and brow furrowed.

"We had tea less than thirty minutes ago."

"Whiskey then?" John grinned. Sherlock watched him for a second before allowing himself a smile too.

"I'll just watch you, but alright." John chuckled a bit at that, and led the way back out of the bedroom.

He'd just poured a couple fingers of whiskey into a tumbler when Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door.

"Oh, dearies, d'you think one of you might be able to pop down and grab the roast? I've got it all set but carrying it up these stairs, with my hip..."

"Of course." Sherlock let her in while he sauntered down stairs, returning in a few minutes with a lovely platter made up with a large pork roast, as well as small potatoes, carrots, and some green beans. Mrs. Hudson smiled and he bent down and she kissed his cheek.

"I've missed you so much, Sherlock," she told him. He smiled.

"I'm glad to be home."

"Cheers to that." John handed Mrs. Hudson a glass of wine and clinked his tumbler against it. "Glad you _finally _came home."

Dinner was excellent, as Mrs. Hudson's dinners always were. Conversation was easy and casual, and there were no interruptions, no texts from either Lestrade or Mycroft demanding an audience with either John or Sherlock or both. It was peaceful and calm, and Sherlock wondered how he'd ever been able to stay away from Baker Street so long, stay away from this without realizing how much he missed it all.

After dinner had cleared and John had insisted on washing Mrs. Hudson's serving tray ("Oh, thank you, John, so sweet!") and they'd walked her back to her flat ("You two don't worry about me, I'll be fine, but I suspect you still have some talking to do, don't you?"), Sherlock found himself standing in the doorway, watching John bustle about the sitting room.

"Going to stand there all night?" Sherlock looked up - he'd lost himself in thought for a moment, and John had seen him do it.

"How long will you be in this room?"

John frowned. "Dunno... a bit, I'd wager."

"Then I shall stand here until you sit down or leave." There was now a very John expression looking back at him. It was part frown, part amusement, part wonder at Sherlock's quirks. Sherlock had given up trying to name John's expressions - they all simply became John, because no one else had ever given him reason to notice things like this.

At almost eight that evening, John sat down on the sofa. Sherlock strode over and sat next to him, hands balled in fists on his thighs, unsure and inexperienced and just unaware of what the boundaries were right then.

"I think..." Sherlock took a deep breath. John's hand came over to rest on his own - Sherlock looked down, uncurling his fingers and letting John's slip between them. He curled his around instinctively. _Mine, mine, mine_. The devil's voice came this time. _You're only going to break this, you know. And think of what Mummy would have said, seeing you now._ Sherlock hoped the devil would catch the scent of the cookies Mrs. Hudson was baking downstairs and leave him alone. The sensation of John's fingers calsped around his caused him to forget what he had been about to say - it no longer mattered that much anyway.

"Tired at all?" John looked at Sherlock as he asked the question. Sherlock almost replied with his normal, immediate, finite, "No," but stopped. Was this John looking out for him? Friend, doctor, colleague. Or was this John's invitation to something more? A chance to be led back into John's room, over to John's bed. Be pushed down onto it, and feel the weight of another human being over him?

"I... don't know." He may be unsure of things, but he was being honest. If he stayed up, and refused to go to his own bed, he would probably be up most of the night. But he had a feeling that if his head hit a pillow, he was done for.

"I was asking because... I stripped your bed. You know, dust and all."

Sherlock closed his eyes and let a long, slow breath escape him. Of course. Perfect sense.

"I can go remake it for you, it's no trouble."

"No, I can manage, thank you."

John nodded, looking away. "Do you want some help?"

"I can move the boxes - your labels will make it easy to find what I need. Thank-you."

"Sherlock, I'll help you-"

"No." Sherlock stands and walks away.

# # #

"Sherlock?"

"John."

John rubbed at his eyes, sitting up in bed. Sherlock stood in his doorway, pajama pants and a t-shirt, hands behind his back.

"What the-"

"Couldn't sleep. I... I wanted to ask you something."

"And it couldn't wait until morning?"

"It is morning."

"I meant the normal morning."

Sherlock's head cocked. "I don't understand."

John was fairly certain this was not true, but he wasn't up to arguing this point right now. "Never mind, Sherlock. What is it?"

Sherlock started to come in before remembering that John hated it when he simply entered his bedroom without permission. "May I... come in?" The words felt strange.

"Bleedin' hell, why not." John stiffled a yawn. Sherlock came in and sat down on the bed, scooting over to sit next to him.

"I wanted to ask you how you would feel if we, well..."

John looked over at his best friend - though, really, was that all? They'd practically torn each other's clothes off earlier that evening. "Sherlock, you never pause when asking a question. What's wrong?"

"How would you feel if we didn't need separate rooms?" Sherlock kept his gaze straight ahead. Next to him, John was silent. The two sat there for what felt like years before John finally spoke.

"You want... to share a bedroom?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of sharing the bed within it as well, but your assessment is valid."

"You want to sleep. In the same bed."

"Yes."

"Have you thought this through?"

"Of course I have." Sherlock wasn't sure if it was good that John hadn't said no immediately, but he kept his gaze was directed at the far wall just in case. "I know what I'm offering. And what I'm asking."

"Sherlock." John realized his mistake as he was making it, saw it the moment the name passed his lips. A tension, pulling at Sherlock's eyes, his neck. He tried not to show it but John knew - John always knew, when it came to Sherlock. "Sherlock," he tried again, softer this time, "look at me, will you?"

Slowly Sherlock turned his head. Eyes lowered to meet John's. His breathing was calm, slow, steady. But his eyes were pained and scared. "Yes, John?"

"I want to know that you mean what I think you mean," John said. "Earlier we were practically declaring ourselves to each other, then after dinner you shut yourself away in your room and locked me out - wouldn't let me help you make your bed even. I want to know that you understand the consequences of what you're asking for." Sherlock looked away from him again and took a deep, steady breath.

"I know that by asking this of you I'm effectively giving up the right to lock you out, as you put it. I know that by sharing a bed you think I mean sex - quite correctly, too. I know that when I look at you all I see is the heart everyone tells me I no longer have. I know that when you're not there I want you to be and that's why I carry on talking when you're gone. I know that the last seventeen months away from you have been the hardest of my life. I know that despite the dangers it brings along, love is worth it for the right person." He turned to look at John. "And I know that there is only one person in the world I find to be worth it."

John stared at him, dumbstruck.

"My god." His breathing was heavy. "Sherlock." Sherlock looked down at his hands in his lap.

"I should have told you sooner," he admitted. "Much, much sooner."

"Yes, you should have." John smiled as Sherlock chuckled, joining in after a moment.

"To be fair, you never said anything either," Sherlock told him.

John nodded. "You were married to your work."

"I still am. But that in no way makes me less... dedicated. To you, that is."

John inhaled - deep and calming - reaching out a hand and grasping Sherlock's. Then he laughed. Sherlock looked at him, confused.

"I'm given to understand that declarations of that sort aren't meant to be found funny." John only laughed harder at Sherlock's expression.

"No, no your declaration was lovely, Sherlock. It's just... I never thought you'd have that in you. Next thing I know you'll be buying flowers and chocolates."

"I could, if you wante-"

"Nope, no. No flowers. No chocolates, just... just you, Sherlock. That's what I want. I want you." Sherlock pulled his hand out of John's and ran both hands through his own hair, taking in a deep breath.

"Then, we could-"

"Not tonight, Sherlock."

"Why?" Sherlock turned his whole torso and looked at John now. "You just said - but - why?"

"You were dead." John looked at him - he wasn't angry or sad, but his expression was intense nonetheless. "It took me months - _months _- to get back to basic functionality after I saw you fall. I visited your grave so often the groundskeepers know me by name. It was a year until I could come back here. I finally came back, started making things work in my life, and now... here you are. Back from the dead. It's a lot to process."

"But I've explained everything." Sherlock felt his impatience rising.

"Yes, and I am still in shock that you're here, and that I'm looking at you at all. Tonight... tonight I just couldn't even think about... about sex, or any of that..."

Sherlock slumped back against the headboard. They were quiet for a moment before Sherlock said, "Then... perhaps we could simply sleep?" John looked at him and smiled.

"Sleep would be grand."

"My bed is far more comfortable."

John nodded. "Oh I'm sure it is, but right now, I want to sleep in my bed, and if you want to stay, you're welcome to." And with that, John snuggled back down under the blankets and rolled over.

Moments later he felt the heat and weight of another body slip under the blankets and scoot closer to him, a tentative arm snaking around his waist and pulling him close. He leaned backwards a bit into Sherlock. The beating of his heart against John's back was strong and steady, and soon his breathing became deep and easy. John smiled as he took Sherlock's fingers in his own and fell asleep.

# # #

John woke early to sound of someone next to him breathing deeply. He glanced over and saw Sherlock on his back, head turned towards him, eyes dancing in REM sleep. John smiled and carefully got out of bed, grabbing his robe and slippers. He eased the door closed behind him and walked into the living room.

Mrs. Hudson was in the kitchen, placing groceries in their fridge. She turned when she heard John walk down the hallway.

"Oh, John, good morning." She beamed at him. John could not stop himself from returning it, even if he'd wanted to.

"Morning, Mrs. Hudson."

"Did he ever..." She gestured down the hallway.

"Oh, yeah. Middle of the night."

Mrs. Hudson shook her head, still smiling. "Coffee?"

"That would be marvelous, Mrs. Hudson." She set to puttering about the kitchen, setting up the coffee and letting it brew. She came to stand in the doorway between the kitchen and living room, watching John as he pulled out the paper. A sound down the hallway made her turn. Sherlock stepped out of John's room, rubbing at his eyes and staggering slightly through the hall.

"John?" The tremor in his voice brought John around the chairs quickly. The moment their eyes met, Sherlock's expression calmed.

"Morning, Sherlock."

"Look at you two!" Mrs. Hudson clasped her hands excitedly. Sherlock blushed, but John just smiled. "I always knew this would happen, I tell you!"

"Don't... go getting too excited there." John stepped back as Sherlock ambled silently by him to flop on the couch like a sullen teenager. "There's still a lot we need to discuss." Mrs. Hudson watched Sherlock's expression as John said this. He looked away - going from teenager to a petulant child in seconds. She smiled.

"He really is adorable when he pouts." Her stage whisper earned her a glare from the couch before Sherlock flipped away from them both, curling up into a ball. John smiled but said nothing. Mrs. Hudson finished making the coffee and chatted with John for a few minutes more before excusing herself back to her apartment. She cast one last happy glance at the still balled-up form on the couch before blowing a small kiss to John and hurrying back downstairs.

"Adorable." Sherlock was muttering on the couch. "Just what every grown man longs to hear about himself."

"You started pouting, Sherlock. What was she supposed to say?"

"She could have told me to stop it."

"She's not your mother."

"She also claims she's not our housekeeper, yet she does half our shopping, cooking, and cleaning." John's lips puckered a bit. He had a point. He turned back to his coffee, finishing that last gulp and putting the dish in the sink.

"So. Pleasant dreams?"

Sherlock rolled over and eyed John as he walked back into the living room. John's face was pleasant enough. "Yes."

"Good."

"Why?"

"I just... you were in REM sleep when I got up, I wanted to make sure."

"Why wouldn't they have been good dreams?"

"Because you whimpered in your sleep."

Sherlock glared, but John only gave him a half shrug. Sherlock rolled back over, facing the wall. John watched him a moment more before turning and walking down the hallway. Sherlock looked over his shoulder again. "What are you doing?"

"Shower."

Sherlock frowned even deeper. "Don't you want to, I don't know, make me talk about my dreams?"

"You'll talk when you want to. In the meantime, I'm having a shower." John walked back out to the living room, a towel in his hand. "Only be a few minutes."

"Fine."

Sherlock heard the bathroom door open and close, and a moment later the shower clicked on. He lay there, thinking. Then he stood up, stripped out of his clothes, and walked into the bathroom.

"SHERLOCK!"

He quickly backed out, shouting at the door. "YOU SAID I'D TALK WHEN I WANTED TO!"

"I DIDN'T MEAN WHILE I WAS IN THE BLOODY SHOWER!"

"BE MORE SPECIFIC!"

A noise much like the sound of fists slamming into a shower wall sounded through the apartment, followed by John's muffled shout of annoyance. Sherlock rolled his eyes and stalked back off to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

# # #

Twenty minutes later, John was in his room getting dressed. He'd darted out of the shower when he heard Sherlock's door slam, and locked the bathroom door. He'd then very quickly scrubbed up and rinsed, muttering to himself the whole time about personal space and his bloody brilliant roommate's complete lack of comprehension on the matter. When he'd dried off and had the towel wrapped around his waist, he slowly unlocked the door and listened for a moment. He couldn't hear anything, but that never really meant much with Sherlock. He could be standing right outside the door, waiting.

John closed his eyes and opened the door, peeking quickly and finding the hallway empty - Sherlock's door was still closed. He dashed down the hallway to his own room, moving quickly but quietly to help himself avoid detection. He just needed a moment to get dressed - just one small moment, and then he'd be ready to deal with Sherlock again. Once he'd eased the door closed, he'd turned to see said roommate sitting naked on his bed.

"Jesus, Sherlock!" John jumped, dropping the towel. Sherlock had glanced over as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening.

"Nice shower?"

"Get out." John stooped and grabbed the towel, fumbling with it.

"What? Why?"

"Because I want to get dressed, Sherlock!" John was trying to no avail to get his towel wrapped back around his waist.

"I'm not dressed."

"I can see that!"

"What's so important that it will require clothes?"

"GET OUT, SHERLOCK!"

John wrenched the door open. Sherlock found himself hauled out of the bed and shoved rather unceremoniously out, the door closing quickly behind him.

"I'll just be in the living room then!"

"AAAARGH!" Sherlock's brow furrowed, but he decided it was best not to push John much farther. He walked back to the living room and was just pulling his pants back on when his front door opened.

"John, sorry, I just-" Sherlock looked up from picking up his shirt as Detective Inspector Lestrade stopped where he was and stared. He took several deep breaths, blinking constantly. "Blinkin' 'ell... Sherlock?"

"Hello, Lestrade."

"We need to set boudaries, Sherlock!" John's voice boomed down the hallway. "No matter what happened yesterday, it does not mean you can just barge in on me-" John stopped as he reached the living room and saw the Detective Inspector staring at a deadman. "Oh, Lestrade, I..."

"John, am I seein' things? Has the job finally made my mind go funny?"

"No more so than usual, Lestrade." Sherlock's smile was small, his features drawn tight. He lifted his shirt over his head and slipped it back on, running his fingers through his shaggy curls.

"You hear 'im, right?" Lestrade still hadn't moved from where he stood in the doorway. "See 'im too, I hope."

"Yes, Inspector. It's a long story, and-" John was cut off by the sight of Lestrade nearly falling forward and grasping Sherlock in a tight embrace.

"My god." Lestrade was tearing up, holding Sherlock close to him as though he might wake up. Sherlock's arms hesitantly went around Lestrade.

"I'm sorry."

"What?" Lestrade pulled back and looked at Sherlock. "Sorry? What for?"

"For being away for so long. It was not my original intention."

"Sherlock, you were dead!" Lestrade pulled him back into another hug, a few tears escaping the corners of his eyes. "I never planned on seeing you again in this lifetime. This is a miracle."

"Science, actually."

"Sherlock..." Sherlock looked at John, who gave him a serious look. _Oh, right. They know that. Lestrade was being overly dramatic. I remember these discussions..._

Lestrade pulled back and finally let go of Sherlock. "How?"

John jumped in before Sherlock could begin. "It's a long story, Inspector. And probably not one you really want to hear." Sherlock watched as something passed between the two of them - understanding dawned in Lestrade's eyes, and he nodded slowly.

"Righ'. Another time, then - when I'm just Greg."

"Sounds good." John smiled at Sherlock before turning back to the Detective. "So, what brings you 'round?"

"Oh, yeah..." Lestrade looked a little sheepish. "Honestly, I just came by to check on you. Gut feelin', you know?" John looked down, his smile a mixture of sad and happy.

"Yes. All too well."

"So." Lestrade looked between the two. "When was I gonna be told about your resurrection?"

# # #

An hour later, Lestrade left. John and Sherlock had filled him in on most of the happenings in the last twenty-four hours, though John had to stomp on Sherlock's foot a couple times to stop him from going into too much detail about more personal aspects of their reunion. Lestrade had given them odd looks at those intervals but hadn't pressed the issue. John had made tea and served up some of Mrs. Hudson's biscuits. Sherlock had immediately begun questioning Lestrade on various cases he'd been following. Lestrade had reminded him that he was still officially dead as far as most of the world knew, and he couldn't very well bring him back in right now. Sherlock had slumped, but mumbled that he understood. In reality, John knew he did not understand. To Sherlock, the fact was that he was alive, and he was home again, and that should mean he was welcomed back into the fold one hundred percent. After all, hadn't his fake suicide proved him to be just as clever - cleverer, even - as the papers had tried to claim he wasn't?

John showed Lestrade to the door and promised that if any more surprises turned up, he'd ring him immediately. Lestrade had smiled. "I kept wondering when I'd wake up, you know?" John had smiled, and nodded, because he understood the meaning better than Lestrade knew.

When he walked back upstairs and into the flat, Sherlock was slumped in his normal chair, long legs stretched out, arms dangling over the sides. "Bored?" Sherlock snorted at the question. John wished he had better to offer than this. "Look, you have to understand - the amount of work and red tape Lestrade is going to have to wade through-"

"But I'm _right here_. I don't see why they can't allow me to start consulting with them again just because of a silly slip of paper."

"That silly slip of paper is your _death certificate_, Sherlock. It's a rather important piece of paper. And they can't just tear it up and pretend it never happened."

"They should, though."

John wiped his hands over his face. "So. What d'you want to do?"

Sherlock looked up at him, surprised. "What do I want to do?" John nodded. "You know what I want to do."

"Well you can't do that."

"Fine."

"Fine, Sherlock." John took a deep breath. "I'm going to Tesco to pick up a couple things Mrs. Hudson didn't get - need anything?" Sherlock shrugged. John looked at him, a bit of frustration leaking into his expression. Sherlock had never once waited for an invitation to tag along on any number of things John did, including dates. Yet here he was, sulking and waiting for John to ask him along on something as mundane as grocery shopping? "Would you like to go with me?" Sherlock smiled at that.

"Sounds lovely, John. I'm out of cigarettes and you don't know my preferred brand anymore."

"No, you're going back on the patch. Now go get dressed in some proper clothes and we'll be off. I'll call for a taxi."

Sherlock got up and strode to his room. John could hear him rummaging as he placed a call for a taxi cab to come get them. He smiled as he heard Sherlock grumble about there being nothing wrong with what he was wearing in the first place, and how after all those months of blissful freedom to smoke as he wanted there was no way he was going back on that damned patch.

"Well, this will be interesting." John started down the stairs without waiting for Sherlock.


	4. Chapter 3: The Second Time

Shopping had been a study in patience that John had not had use for in almost a year and a half. Sherlock had criticized nearly every choice in food and supplies that John had made for nearly the first twenty minutes until someone wandered over and slipped John a business card. They both frowned at the woman's retreating backside for a moment. John felt the card plucked out of his hand.

"Marriage counseling?" Sherlock was looking quite revolted at the card, holding it now between two fingers. John grinned.

"Think we should let her see us at home?" Sherlock had threatened to get his own cab home after that. John had been tempted to let him.

The rest of the shopping was easy, comparatively speaking. Sherlock stuffed his hands in his pockets and slouched into his coat a bit, grumbling about assumptions not being at all like deductions, really, and John did his best not to laugh too loudly.

Once back home, they settled into their chairs with a cup of tea each. John grabbed his newspaper and flipped though a few sections, finding some articles he hadn't read before. Sherlock sat with his fingers steepled in front of his lips, eyes staring at nothing which was everything in Sherlock's world.

"We should talk."

John looked up from his paper curiously. "About?"

"You know precisely what I'm talking about, but as I can see you're going to make me spell it out, I mean that we should talk about last night, and future nights." Sherlock was still not looking at John, who had folded his paper away and stuffed it next to him in his chair.

"Ah."

"Masterful use of the language, as always."

John sighed. Sherlock's putdowns had long ago lost most of their sting "I think we should take things slowly." John looked down at his shoes. "Nothing says we need to rush into the more physical side of things."

Sherlock moved nothing but his eyes - they slid to the side and watched John. "I'm not sure..." Sherlock's hands moved forward and he turned his head now, eyes staying exactly where they were, trained on John's face. John marvelled a little at how odd it was to watch those eyes stand still while everything around them moved, and knew that if something like that was ever possible, Sherlock Holmes was the man who could accomplish it. "I'm not very capable with the... less physical side of these things." John's eyebrow quirked.

"So you're saying that you're fantastic in bed but not good at talking?" A laugh slipped out before John could rein it in. "You? The man who seems to avoid human contact as a general rule and reminds everyone how stupid they are at every opportunity? Surely you jest, sir."

"Sarcasm. How plebeian."

John smiled at that. Sherlock could tell without intense scrutiny that this was not the friendliest of smiles - no, this was the smile of the soldier John Watson. Warning and cunning, hinting at bad things should the receiver cross him. Predatory. An odd sensation washed over him.

"Holmes?"

Sherlock blinked, mind snapping back into the moment. "What?"

"Well you sort of... seemed lost." John shrugged. "Thought maybe you'd forgotten your name or something."

"So you used my surname, of course, what better way to attract my attention."

"Sorry, what?"

"Surname. I'm so used to hearing Sherlock that hearing you call me Holmes-"

"OK, yes, I get it now."

Sherlock's glare was less than half-hearted. "I'm not what anyone would call an acceptable partner, or... whatever you want to call it." Sherlock huffed. "I don't know that this would work well, especially over the long-term."

"You could give it a chance." John tilted his head, considering Sherlock for a moment. "But thank you."

"For what?"

"For admitting you're not good at something."

Sherlock's glare intensified. "Shut up."

John only smiled again. It was still unfriendly.

# # #

Sherlock paced around his room. His conversation with John earlier had not gone as well as he'd wanted, but it had gone better than expected. There had been some genuine, affectionate smiles interspersed with his shouting about John's stubbornness and stupidity. John had returned in kind, yelling about Sherlock's tendency to reduce everything - and moreover, every_one_ - to a case to solve instead of treating them like human beings. There were a few times Sherlock had been sure John would leave, but he stayed there, abuse flung at him and volleyed back like a tennis match. Sherlock had to admit, part of it had been fun - until he'd realized, after working himself up, that they had forgotten the nicotine patches.

_Knock knock._ His door creaked open slowly, and he looked up, glaring at John.

"Did you find them?" John's voice was calm, quiet.

"Make a deduction." John's mouth twisted at Sherlock's tone, but he said nothing more on the subject.

"Do you want me to-"

"No."

"Well too bad - you're insufferable as it is, I'm not dealing with you off the nic, too." John turned and left the doorway. Sherlock waited a moment, jittering in place, before bolting after him down the hallway, dressing gown billowing behind him.

"What are you doing?"

John just looked at him as he zipped his jacket. "I've already told you."

"And I told you not to!"

"Well, that's part of a relationship, Sherlock. We're going to disagree. For what it's worth, I'm sorry. I'll just go to the corner store, back in five minutes. You'll probably have figured out another hundred or so reasons we can't make this work by then." Sherlock turned around, trying to look as though he were angry instead of on the verge of smiling.

"I'll go with you."

"You're back in your dressing gown - just stay here. Relax. Or, get as close to relaxed as you ever get."

Sherlock huffed. "Hurry up, then." John's footsteps sounded on the stairs. Sherlock took a deep breath, then stalked back towards his bedroom. The front door opened.

_BANG!_

Sherlock froze, one hand brushing his hair back from his face. _Gunshot_.

It took him several more seconds before his brain could force him to move. Down the hall, down the stairs. The front door was still open halfway. Blood trickled down to the floor under it. Splintered section where a high-velocity projectile had hit. _Bullet, a bullet, call it was it is_.

"Sherlock?" He whirled to see Mrs. Hudson quivering in her doorway. "Was that..."

Sherlock didn't wait for her to finish. He yanked the door open fully.

Blood on the pavement. A large but thin spread - nowhere near enough to be fatal. He stepped out, avoiding the pattern of the spray as best he could. Not well enough, he realized, as he felt a small, warm, sticky spot under one of his bare feet. He looked around. Only a small handful of people, most of them across the street and gawking. Cameras and cell phones were out. Sherlock recognized many of them as regular visitors of Baker Street's shops.

But no sign of John anywhere.

"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson was standing close to the door now. He watched her as she saw what he saw - blood, bullet, no John. Her hand clutched at her heart and her breath came fast. "Oh god, Sherlock!" He stepped over the blood again and caught her in his arms, twirling her away from everything and shutting the door quickly.

"Don't look, Mrs. Hudson." He knew his warning was late - she'd seen, she knew what that had to be. She'd have heard John go downstairs - had probably heard most of their argument, too.

"Sherlock, was it... was it..."

"I'm almost entirely certain it was." Mrs. Hudson began sobbing against his chest now as he held her, not sure what else to do right then. His normal thought would be to call Lestrade, demand a full police force investigation. But as Lestrade and John had pointed out, he was still legally dead.

"Mrs. Hudson," he said, softly. "I need you to call the police."

"Oh, of course!" She fluttered her hands about herself, regrouping before rushing into her own flat to grab her phone. Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath before taking the stairs two at a time. He reached the flat and raced to his room. His mobile was on the bedside table. He clicked it into life.

_3 new messages._

He opened the first one.

[_Call me. Immediately. MH_] The timestamp was less than a minute after the gunshot.

[_Your brother just called me and told me to get back to your house. What's going on?_] Lestrade. This timestamp was two minutes after the first.

[_We should meet. You'll hear from me soon. Until then, the good doctor will be at my mercy. Looking forward to making your acquaintance._] Blocked number - it had come in just before he'd made it back to his room. Sherlock swallowed, his mouth and throat drier than he could remember them ever being before. He thumbed over to his dialer, and punched in a number as quickly as he could with shaking hands.

"About time." The answering voice was droll, as though they were discussing nothing more pressing than the weather.

"Where is he?" Sherlock almost growled. "Dammit, Mycroft, _where is he_, tell me now!"

"It's nice to hear from you too, Sherlock. Pleasantries aren't always uncalled for."

"WHERE'S JOHN?" Sherlock was almost screaming at his brother, a tear rolling down his cheek. "Where is he? You have your damn cameras everywhere, tell me!" There was a pause as Mycroft took in a breath - Sherlock snarled, a gutteral, animalistic sound. This particular Mycroft sigh was not what he'd wanted. "You don't know, do you?"

"I wish I had more I could give you, Sherlock."

"Then give me what you can and let me find him!"

"Has Lestrade contacted you yet?"

"He's on his way. Now stop wasting my time and give me what information you have."

"Good fellow, that Detective Inspector. I should expect he'll be delayed slightly - not as though he can say he's on his way to your house to talk to you. He'll have to wait until Mrs. Hudson's call is processed and he can claim the case. Familiarity, confidence - they'll give him the case. He should be there in twenty minutes, I would think. Maybe twenty-five. I'll see you then." Mycroft hung up, and Sherlock could feel his fingers about to crush his phone. He flung it to the mattress, watched it bounce once and then off his bed, clattering on the floor. He stalked out of his room again.

_And I still don't have any nicotine patches_. The thought caught him off guard, and he started laughing. Quiet at first, then louder and louder, until at last he was doubled over on the couch, laughing like the madman everyone accused him of being. It was, after all, better than the alternative right now.

# # #

When Lestrade arrived at 221B Baker Street, he had not expected to see Mycroft sitting on the couch - Lestrade had always believed Mycroft saw the couch as an assault on his dignity, giving it as wide a berth as possible. And he certainly hadn't expected to walk into the flat and see Mycroft with his hand running through Sherlock's hair, murmuring reassurances, as the younger man sobbed quietly into his thigh.

"Uh, sorry... to interupt..." Lestrade's voice sounded almost as uncomfortable as he felt. The soft crying coming from Sherlock stopped abruptly - as did his breath and all other movement. A moment later, Sherlock stood up and, not looking at Lestrade or Mycroft, stalked out of the room. A door slammed, and Lestrade heard water running.

"Good to see you, Detective Inspector." Mycroft stood, but did not offer his hand. Lestrade nodded at him.

"Wish it were better circumstances, sir," he replied truthfully. He looked behind him, in the direction Sherlock had gone. "Is he..."

"He will be fine in a moment, I can assure you." Mycroft's politician smile was in place, and Lestrade opened his mouth to say something but stopped. He nodded again instead.

"Right. So, I got my team downstairs, they won't have any reason to come up here at the moment. Mrs. Hudson's telling them all they'll need for now."

"Good." Mycroft leaned slightly on his umbrella, one hand in his trouser pocket. The door behind Lestrade opened, and Sherlock stepped out, face freshly scrubbed but eyes still rimmed with red.

"Sherlock." Lestrade held out a hand, and Sherlock looked at it a bit forlornly before taking it. "We're doing all we can, you-"

"I need to be on this one." He watched Lestrade's face as he said this. Sadness, regret, disappointment - but not in Sherlock; in the situation, then.

"You know I can't." Lestrade sounded reserved as Sherlock dropped his hand. "I want to - _god_, do I want to be able to bring you in, Sherlock. But you're still dead, in the eyes of the government. I can't say I'm consulting with a dead man. I'll give you everything I can, but it won't always be easy." Sherlock watched him for a moment more before turning to Mycroft. He looked like he might be choking as he did so - his face turned red and a little splotchy before shifting to a nearly purple shade.

"Fix this." The words sounded as though they had been forced around a large ball stuck in Sherlock's throat. "Make this disappear." Mycroft's eyebrows rose.

"I cannot simply bring a man back from the dead, Sherlock - we talked about this. It's going to take time."

"Make it take less time, then." The reply was harsh, but Mycroft had been expecting it.

"I'm trying, brother-mine. Even my reach must halt somewhere. I'm doing the best I can."

"It's not good enough!" Sherlock stepped in closer to Mycroft. Lestrade stepped back, happy to let the Holmes siblings go at each other right now. Mycroft watched his brother with an air of disregard. Sherlock's glare increased, but finally he seemed to resign himself to his fate. Deep breath in through the nose, and he stepped back. Lestrade would be able to recall this moment with perfect clarity for some time to come - it was the only time he had ever seen Sherlock Holmes back down from anything.

"Fine. Then what can _you _tell me, Mycroft?" The older man smiled, pulling a manila folder from inside his jacket and handing it to Lestrade, who took it slowly, glancing between the two brothers.

"Doctor John Watson was shot in the right shoulder just after stepping outside his home at 221B Baker Street. He never had time to cry out even - three men in balaclavas raced to him from a car parked in front of _Speedy's_." Mycroft said the name as though just the thought of the cafe was distasteful. "He was chloroformed and wrangled into the back of the car - which looks to be a normal London cab. The license plates were fake, but my cameras were able to follow the vehicle until it merged onto the A5, headed north-bound." Lestrade thumbed through pictures and printed report pages as Mycroft spoke.

"Track his phone, then." Sherlock started towards his laptop. A hand gripping his arm stopped him, and he looked at Mycroft.

"Do you really think that wasn't the first thing I did? My people are on alert - they're trying to track it continuously. I'll be informed the moment they have anything. It's likely-"

"They would have turned his phone off." Both Holmeses turned and looked at Lestrade. He gave them a surprised look. "What? I _am_ a detective, in case you've forgotten that fact." They said nothing, but Lestrade noticed that they both looked down and to the left when confronted with something they hadn't really thought of. Had they been anyone else, he would have thought they looked repentant.

The moment passed quickly, and Sherlock began pacing when Mycroft's hand dropped back to its favored trouser pocket.

"So what do we do next?" Sherlock looked between Lestrade and his brother, desperation filling his eyes. "I can't... I need to be useful."

"Unfortunately, only thing we can do right now is wait and see what turns up," Lestrade told him. He'd never felt particularly close to Sherlock - he had, after all, always been told that Sherlock had no friends. But in that small moment, he would have given anything, even his badge, to make that look on the man's face go away. A wall tumbled down, and Sherlock's agony came shining through, too bright to look at directly and scorching. Sherlock blinked rapidly several times before whirling away from them, his hands going up to his face. Lestrade looked down - sometimes the illusion of no one noticing your pain was better. He knew from recent experience.

Mycroft stepped forward, a hand settling atop Sherlock's shoulder. Lestrade watched it flex once before it dropped back and Mycroft walked downstairs.

"I'll call you," Lestrade said softly to Sherlock's backside. The shaggy black curls bobbed a couple times in rapid succession, but he said nothing. Lestrade folded his arm around the file and walked downstairs. He pretended he didn't hear an anguished, strangled sort of scream come from just above him.


	5. Chapter 4: Following Directions

Sleep was a mercy Sherlock did not want. But it came to him anyway, when he had exhausted himself pacing the flat and broken more beakers than he had realized he owned, and had shouted at the empty chair that John should have been in until Mrs. Hudson came upstairs and he fell into her arms, crying and ranting about how colossally stupid it was of John to go and get himself shot and kidnapped _now_ of all times. Mrs. Hudson had guided him back to the couch, and rocked him back and forth like a child until he had calmed down enough to go wash his face _again_ and get into his pajamas. He did so, and came back out looking at her with wide eyes full of loneliness and still that terrible desperation. She'd fixed him some herbal tea ("Chamomile, dear, it'll help you sleep.") and what Sherlock was quite sure was a shot or three of good whiskey, but he hadn't cared when he knocked the drink back in one gulp. She'd smiled and told him to get into bed. He'd argued and refused and finally acquiesced, thinking she'd leave the moment he was in his room. But she tucked him into his large bed, pulling the thick comforter up to his chest before pulling a book out of her dress pocket and settling into a small chair in one of the corners of the room not filled with boxes, turning on the reading light and settling in.

Sherlock had grumbled for three minutes before the words became yawns and the yawns became snores. And Mrs. Hudson sat in her chair listening to him mumbling in his sleep about the ends of the earth and vengeance being sevenfold, and she closed her eyes and wished him peace that never came.

When he awoke the next morning, it was to the sound of his text alert going off. Instinctively he grabbed his phone and opened the message.

[_I have a lead on the shooter. -MH_]

Even as sleepy and slightly hungover as Sherlock felt, his finger flew across the buttons. [_Everything you have. Now. -SH_]

He stared at the phone for a few minutes, anxious until at last a new message came in. [_Sebastian Moran. Dishonorable discharge - Army. Rank of Colonel. Excellent marksman. -MH_]

A photo message came in now - a young man, probably just enlisted. His hair was a deep red, cropped close and short. Brown eyes - cold, calculating, predatory and vicious.

[_What else? -SH_] The phone was silent for too long. Sherlock closed his eyes, taking several deep breaths before opening them again and sending another message. [_Tell me you have more, Mycroft. That cannot possibly be all there is on this man. -SH_]

He only had a moment to wait before the next message came in. [_We're investigating him now. Patience, my dear brother, is not one of your few virtues. -MH_]

Sherlock growled at the message but sent no reply. Mycroft would either come through soon and give him a proper lead, or he'd simply set out on foot and scour the entire world until he found John and... restored balance. He put his phone back on the nightstand and wondered if the place John was being kept was a large building. Moran might have to fall out a window a few times... and perhaps a few times more...

His phone chirped at him again. He glanced at it. _Mycroft already?_ He slid his thumb across the unlock button.

[_The good doctor's fine. And he might continue to be fine if you listen very, very carefully._] Sherlock's eyes widened. He hit reply -error, unknown number. His hands and arms began to shake as the next message came in.

[_Go to your grave. There's a stone bench nearby. It will be empty. Fifteen minutes, or the good doctor loses one of his fingers._] Sherlock stared at the message. Fifteen minutes to get dressed and nearly halfway across town? Not possible. But... John...

Sherlock had never dressed so quickly, nor commandeered a cab so happily, nor lied to a driver so smoothly.

"Emergency - threat of violence at Nunhead Cemetery - STEP ON IT!" He flashed one of Lestrade's IDs, and the cabbie took off, wheels peeling and knuckles white on the wheel.

Sherlock grabbed his phone. [_Thirteen minutes to get to Nunhead. Threat against John. -SH_] The chirp of his phone was nearly immediate.

[_I'll clear what I can. -MH_]

It was, in fact, fourteen minutes later when he was racing to the bench near his grave. His phone went off again.

[_Nicely done. I won't even take points off for the extra minute. Under the bench is a package. Take it._] Sherlock never stopped running, breath huffing out in gasps now. He reached the bench - it was empty, just as he had been told it would be. But the seat was warm - it had been occupied moments ago. He glanced around, looking for anything that might help him. The phone beeped.

[_If you keep looking, the good doctor loses two fingers. Take the package, Mr. Holmes._] Sherlock grit his teeth and stooped, fingers brushing a small bubble-mailer taped to the underside of the stone seat. He yanked it off and tore it open. There was a phone inside - identical to his own. He pressed a button and the screen sprang to life. A picture of John, bleeding from his shoulder but alive and defiant stared back at him. He nearly forgot which phone was which when he heard another beep, glancing between the two for a moment before realizing it was not _his_ phone that had gone off. He pulled his new phone up and looked at the message.

[_Leave your phone in the mailer, and tape it back under the bench._] He did so, not even finished pressing the tape back to the stone before another text came in. [_Go to St. Bartholomew's. You have fifteen minutes. And I won't be so forgiving of tardiness this time._]

Sherlock was running for the gate before he'd even finished reading the text.

# # #

The cab ride seemed agonizingly slow, despite the cabbie going at least ten miles over the speed limit. Sherlock's fingers tapped out a rhythm against his thumb. His legs bounced against the seat, and several times he snapped at the cabbie to not take the long route - he was in a hurry, he needed to be there already.

Thirteen minutes and sixteen seconds later, he arrived at St. Bart's, staring up at the front of the building. It had been so long since...

_Beep_. He pulled his new phone out and opened the message. [_Impressive. Go to your right and get into the phone booth._] Sherlock walked to his right, finding a red phone booth just around the corner. He opened the door as the phone within began ringing. He grabbed the receiver.

"Hello?"

"You sound just like I imagined you would." Sherlock wracked his brain. _Estuary, perhaps. Maybe more Cockney, though._

"Colonel Sebastian Moran, I presume?"

The man on the other end of the phone laughed, loud and happy and real. "Your brother, he's good, isn't he?" The laughter returned. "I been lookin' forward to this, Mr. Holmes."

"Why is that?" Sherlock kept his voice low, uninterested, bored. He refused to shout or rant or demand to know where John was and how he was and whether he'd ever see him again. He closed his eyes.

"Not many people can pull one over on _me_, Mr. Holmes. But you - you did it. Made me think you were dead while I pointed a rifle at the good doctor's head. Well played, that." Sherlock made a small noncommittal noise. "But now, you're alive. And that means, I have a job to finish."

"If you dare-"

"Oh don't worry, Mr. Holmes. See, I like to have fun. And right now, watching you dance is more fun than outright killing either of you."

"I'll need proof that John's still alive since your last picture, of course."

"Of course. In the meantime, turn around, and watch the curb across from the hospital." Sherlock twisted and saw a black car pull up - it could have been one of Mycroft's cars - sleek, expensive. Someone he didn't know stepped out, pulling someone else up. The hand holding the phone drooped as he watched a blindfold pulled off of Molly Hooper's eyes. She was crying, and she was scared, and Sherlock had never felt so protective of Molly in his life as he did in that moment, because Molly had seen him at his most vulnerable and she _mattered_. He raised the phone back to his ear. The car zoomed away before Molly had even regained her balance.

"She had better be unharmed."

"She's scared, that's the worst of it." Sherlock watched her dash across the street, into the hospital. "I swear on every pretty blonde hair on the good doctor's head. Maybe even the hair that's not on his head." Sherlock froze. He didn't breath, didn't blink. Finally he forced air out of his nose slowly, controlled, calm, _I won't let him hear this, he can't know this_.

"Why?" Sherlock's voice never quavers. He never explains and Moran never asks what he means. All he hears is a chuckle. Flick of a lighter on the other end, deep breath in and then long exhale. _I'm still out of nicotine, damn the luck._

"The boss, he left me a job to do."

"Kill John if I didn't jump off the building."

"Kill the good doctor if you didn't die."

Sherlock's scowl was threatening to twist his face completely off his skull at this point. "Stop calling him that."

"Oh, you are a jealous thing, aren't ya?" The laughter playing at the edges of those words had Sherlock shaking angrily.

"I still have no proof."

"You'll have it before you walk in the doors at St. Bart's."

"And why would I go in there?"

"Because I just told you to." Sherlock looked down. "You're gonna walk in through the side door, where the morgue entrance is. You're gonna go see that Molly of yours-"

"Molly isn't mine."

"She's as good as, way she carries on."

"I... never..."

"You never do, do you?"

Sherlock was blinking furiously, trying to stop himself, trying to do something, anything, with the flood of emotions that had been surging within him since those three seconds before John had punched him yesterday. _Yesterday. Was it really so short a time ago..._

There's another long drag on the other line. Sherlock pinches the bridge of his nose. He may have to go through some personal effects in the morgue - surely someone that's been brought in recently was a smoker. "What do I do once I'm in the morgue?"

"You get the truth. And then you call me. My number's protected, but programmed into your new phone. No rush on this one - you've got until this time tomorrow."

"Twenty-four hours?" Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at the dialpad in front of him. "Why so long?"

"I'm feelin' generous." The call disconnected abruptly.

Sherlock pulled the phone from his ear and set it back in it's cradle. He took a deep breath. Well, if he had time, he could always run over to the drug store...

The phone rang. He looked at it, annoyed and confused, but grabbed the receiver anyways.

"Mycroft?"

"You're ignoring me, at a time like this?"

Sherlock shook his head, looking over at the CCTV camera across the street. "I had to leave my phone. I've been busy."

"Yes. You should know, Miss Hooper is not injured."

"I know."

"Good. Then you know you cannot continue to do as Moran dictates."

Sherlock let out a long, slightly shaky breath that he would forever claim was a result of the nicotine withdrawals, and not because he was thinking about John, John being shot, John being tended by a mad man and Molly Hooper. Molly, who didn't know he was back and didn't know that John knew that Sherlock was back and was probably sobbing over him wishing she could say anything but remembering Sherlock's words to her that night, before he jumped. _"I've always trusted you."_ He hadn't lied, but he had certainly used her vulnerability and misplaced hero-worship of him to get what he wanted.

His new phone chirped in his pocket. He pulled it out and opened the message.

"He still has John, Mycroft." Sherlock watched a small video of John - John sleeping, his shoulder cleaned and dressed and his mouth open slightly. He was probably drugged with morphine - gunshots were not exactly pleasant affairs.

"Text me from this new phone. I want to be able to keep in touch."

"No."

"Sherlock-"

"He'll have it wired, somehow. He'll have found a way to either block any numbers other than his own, or he'll be able to read all messages. I'll pick up a disposable. One of those... burners, I think they're called."

Mycroft made a noise that might have been praise if it had been anyone other than Sherlock he was talking to, but since it was, Sherlock refused to believe his brother approved.

"I'll text you as soon as I have a number you can reach me at."

"Make it fast, Sherlock."

"Goodbye, Mycroft." Sherlock hung up and stepped out of the phone booth quickly, ignoring it as it started ringing again. He looked up and down the street, pulling his coat around himself. A small pharmacy at the end of the block looked promising. He started towards it.

# # #

Sherlock stood outside the morgue doors, smoking his third cigarette since the phone booth. He tried to tell himself it was simple appreciation - the sensation of the nicotine coursing through his system, the relief after nearly two days without it before arriving home, and finding that there was none at the flat, and the ensuing hell of the day that followed.

But he knew the truth - he always knew the truth even he wanted to believe a lie - and the truth was that he was avoiding Molly. They hadn't had the best parting. He'd told he he had to go away, had things to take care of. Had stupidly admitted that there were snipers, killers, hired guns, after John, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. Had told her... had said he loved...

She'd leaned up and kissed him then, telling him he could, if he wanted to, and he'd pulled back, hand on her arm to keep her distant and eyes wide as he stared her up and down and stammered, _"Oh, no, I... Molly, I'm in love... with John, it's always been John, even before I knew him it was him and... I don't understand any of it... and I'm sorry..."_ And she'd pulled back, horrified, and tried to run but his hand was still on her arm and she'd reached back and before he knew it she'd hit him, hit him hard and flat across his cheek. He'd let her go, and she'd looked at him, swallowing as a few tears rolled down her cheeks before she turned and marched out, never once looking back. Sherlock had been certain his plans were undone then, but he gathered his things and left as quickly and quietly as he could, which hadn't been hard since he'd waited in that damned cold morgue all day and now it was after midnight and there were only a handful of people in the whole building, and only Molly and himself in the morgue.

He'd had a cab waiting for him - Molly had arranged it. Blackfriars station. First train out of the city, out of London and out of John's life and it had been so hard, _so hard_, to sit on that seat and not pull out the phone Molly had retrieved for him, to not text John just one last time and tell him, tell him everything and beg him to wait, to be safe and not be stupid and not get himself killed while Sherlock was gone, because coming home to hear that John was gone would be simply unbearable.

But he never did, and he always wondered but never dared to know because knowing would make things harder, it was always harder when you knew.

He came back once - once, when he knew John and Mrs. Hudson would be at his grave. And he watched them put flowers on it and heard them complain about him and heard John beg him for one more miracle. And he knew, if he had ever believed in God he'd have lost his faith right then, because to hear John beg him to still be alive and be unable to give John this one thing - this one thing that Sherlock wanted above all other things - proved to him that God did not exist.

When he finished his third cigarette, he decided that really, all he was doing was wasting time that John didn't have and pushed the doors open. He stepped into the morgue, remembering how cold and quiet and still it was, mostly. He walked quietly down the hall, hands shoved into his pockets and head down, eyes staring at the floor. It had been some time, and most people thought he wore that ridiculous ear-hat thing, but there were those who would recognize him too easily. At least, there used to be - he realized he had no idea if they still would or not, now, or if they even worked here anymore.

He came to one of the exam rooms and peered in through the small circular window on one of the doors. Molly was inside. Lab coat on, hair pulled back. She had a clipboard and a pen that was streaking furiously across it, and in front of her was a cup of coffee. He didn't see anyone else, didn't hear anything at all. She was probably alone, then. Good.

He pushed the door open. She didn't look up.

"Kenneth, I just said I needed a few mi-" She looked up.

The door swung shut behind Sherlock, who put his hands back in his pockets and stood tall, head high and gaze piercing and mouth unsmiling and _God_ how he wanted her to stop looking at him like that, just _stop looking at him like he was slime_ because he knew he was, he knew he was a terrible person, but he couldn't be anything other than who he was and what he was and what he was was a man in love with his best friend and who he was was Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective.

"Molly."

She watched him for a moment, her eyes narrowed and mouth set in a firm but thin line, and Sherlock waited, he waited for her to scream or rush at him or do anything but stand there doing and saying nothing. Finally she turned away.

"What are you doing here?"

Sherlock opened his mouth, hesitating. "I... I wanted to make sure you were alright." _There, that's normal, that's what friends do, friends check up on you, John would have agreed with me if he were here..._

"I'm fine. I'm over you, in fact." She turned back, her face a cold mask. "You were wrong, you know. That night. You told me I mattered. But I never mattered to you unless you needed something from me. You never called to talk. Never came 'round for a visit, or tea. Never asked me for a thing that wasn't a favor to you, and I did them all, I did everything you asked. I've kept your secret this whole time and now..." She closed her eyes.

Sherlock was at war. His brain was screaming to stay where he was, not to engage her now, to let her finish what she was saying, because for someone so small she packed a hell of a slap, and his heart was... well, it was actually talking to him, telling him to get closer, to make her look at him, make her stop hating him. He fidgeted, not sure what to do.

"I-"

"Just go." He looked at her, wide eyed and confused. She stared back, angry. "Just go away and leave me alone. I don't ever want to talk to you again, Sherlock." With that, she scooped up her coffee, held the clipboard close to her body, and stalked past him and out the door.


	6. Chapter 5: Recognition

John came back to himself slowly. His shoulders were throbbing - the right one more so, and he couldn't figure it out, couldn't put together what the devil had happened as he'd opened the door to 221B, which was very clearly not where he was now, because this was not his bed, it was not Sherlock's bed, and it was not their sofa.

He shifted slightly and fire raced down his right arm, his right side, his right everything. "Oh, _god_." The words ground out through teeth too tight against each other, pressed in so hard it hurt. He shifted his face to look at his shoulder - there was gauze and tape and familiarity on the _wrong _side of his body. He looked over at his left shoulder. The scar from Afghanistan stared at him.

"Ooo, you're awake now!" He looked over to a door that had just opened, seeing a man walk in. Dark red hair that was almost brown - shaggy and lank. Cheeks and chin scruffy from too many days without shaving. Eyes John would know anywhere.

"Moran?" He was almost whispering, or maybe he'd been screaming a lot and his voice was hoarse - at this point he wasn't sure, wasn't sure of anything except that the man smiling down at him had been the one to put both bullets in his body.

"Glad to see my ol' Captain didn't forget me." John lay back against the cot, lumpy and uncomfortable and so clearly military,0 and closed his eyes, willing this to be a bad dream, only a dream. "I think I did a right proper job on you, there." Moran stepped closer and peered at the gauze. "Had to have a bit of help, of course - you were the doc, not me."

"Where am I?" John kept his eyes closed and his voice calm, calm and quiet and dull, because Moran was too excited to be any use if he yelled or got himself worked up. His shoulder wouldn't forgive him, either.

"Oh, you know better'n to ask that, Captain."

John blew out a long breath. "Who helped you?"

Moran smiled brightly. "Nice, sweet little girl, Molly. And she sure is sweet on your boyfriend." John's glare was cold, but Moran only smiled some more. "So I bet you're wonderin'. Why'd I do it?"

"Because you're a sadistic bastard."

Moran laughed loudly, his grin alight and fierce. "That is true, isn't it? And believe me, Captain, it was a real pleasure, puttin' you in my sight again, linin' up the crosshairs just so." Moran placed his hands and arms out like he was holding his rifle now, trained on John. "You always were my one mistake."

John couldn't stop the growl that bubbled in his throat, nor his very pathetic attempt to launch himself at Moran - which ended with him falling off the cot he was on and hitting his right shoulder. He screamed and Moran laughed as he grabbed him up and shoved him back to the cot.

"Just stay put, Captain, you haven't the strength for that yet."

John gripped at his right arm, shaking and very much not crying, he told himself, no, those were not tears, he did not cry, he would not cry for this maniac, this killer who couldn't kill him twice before...

"Why are you dragging this out?" John's teeth clenched so hard he was sure they would grind to dust in a moment, but his voice was steady enough that he did not care.

Moran shook his head. "You think your consulting detective is the only one who can fake a death?" John glanced at him, brow furrowed.

"Moriarty shot himself. In the head. Those kinds of gunshots are a bit harder to come back from." John took a deep breath - it only shook a little. His shoulder was going numb - endorphins kicking in, brain shutting off sensations to that area of the body, and possibly a little of the morphine still coursing through him. He closed his eyes.

"Maybe. Maybe I just wanted to finish the job."

John snorted. "So what happens next then?"

He looked over to see Moran with a syringe. Moran looked at him and smiled - slow, small, sadistic. Not his usual, manic, adrenaline fueled grin that promised pain and suffering. This one was cunning, and willing to wait if need be.

"Now you go back to sleep, Captain. Can't have you hurtin' yourself again. That's my job, after all."

John couldn't fight him, couldn't stop him, could do nothing but watch the needle pierce his skin as he muttered, "No, no, don't..." over and over. The needle retreated from his arm, and he closed his eyes.

# # #

Sherlock was standing outside of St. Bart's again, his newly acquired disposable mobile in his hands, turning it over and over. He'd texted Mycroft, and was now determining the best course of action to get Molly to talk to him again. He had to be able to do _something_. There had to be a way, any way, anything at all, because right now she was the only one who had seen John, _really_ seen John, knew if he was alive and surviving and Sherlock could not bear the not knowing, the uncertainty of whether or not that video he'd watched over and over since walking back outside was current, was still applicable.

"Why are you still here?"

He whirled abruptly and stared at Molly. She was glaring, but she was speaking to him of her own volition, and Sherlock had to know.

"Is he really still alive?" The words were far more rushed than he had wanted, more desperate and longing and wanting than he could admit, but it was Molly, and Molly knew him, had always known him, had always _seen_ him.

She looked at him for a minute, the old concern and car creeping into her eyes, her expression. She said nothing, merely nodded. Sherlock took in a shaky breath and closed his eyes.

"Thank you."

"I think that's the first genuine thanks I've ever gotten from you."

He opened his eyes again and looked at her - _looked_, not just observed, because now he knew there was a difference, and he knew it was why John had become so valuable to him, so indispensable, and it was why now he knew something else to be true, something he couldn't voice but he would, he would the moment he had John back and safe and where he belonged.

Molly looked like herself. But she also looked tired, and sad, and Sherlock was tired and sad and without thinking he stepped over to her and pulled her close, breathing in the scent of her shampoo and the scent of her perfume and the scent of _her_, which somehow felt a little like coming home because it was so familiar.

"I'm sorry." He felt her wrap her arms around him, pulling him tighter. "Had I been able to spare you any of this..."

"You wouldn't have." He pulled back quickly, hands falling to his sides, face blank. Molly gave him a little smile that was goofy and sad and so very Molly. "It's ok, though. I know you would do anything. For him. For John." Sherlock nodded slowly. "That's why I told him - Moran - that he could call me anytime. He has my number now. Anytime he needs me to help with John, I'll be there. Because I know I may not matter, but he does, and I want you to know that he matters to me too."

Sherlock looked at her again and really looked, really observed. She seemed to have gained a bit of weight, but it looked right on her - she wasn't overweight, she looked healthy, like maybe before she'd been eating poorly and now she was starting to take care of herself. He saw in her the same thing he'd realized when his shirts got a bit too tight and he'd complained to John, demanding that John explain why his clothes didn't fit right anymore. And John had only smiled as he put a dinner plate in front of Sherlock and said, "_Have some pasta, Sherlock, you need to eat_," and Sherlock had eaten it because he knew better than to argue with an army doctor.

Sherlock's mouth opened but he couldn't speak. Was John involved with Molly? No, surely she'd be more... emotional over his kidnapping, if that were the case. Had there been some involvement, though? Were they still only friends or had there been more, furtive glances and secret texts and candlelit dinners and, and...

"Were you having sex with John?" Molly's eyes went wide, and Sherlock stared at her, gauging the reaction. She was surprised, but there was no guilt in her expression - so either the answer was a very truthful no, or she felt no shame in the act. But she knew. She had known Sherlock's feelings and had known that he wasn't dead and Molly was someone who cared, who _really and truly_ cared, and she had cared for Sherlock, hadn't she?

"Why-"

"You look healthy. Healthier than I've ever seen you look. John does that to people - he makes them take care of themselves, he made _me_ take care of myself."

"So were you having sex with John, then?" It was Sherlock's turn to be surprised now. The accusations in Molly's voice were harsh, cold, cutting deep and painful, and she had seen him, she should have known...

"No."

"Neither was I. But even if I had been, my sex life is not your business."

"John is my business." Sherlock stepped back into her space, right up to her, so close they could have touched with a single deep breath. She stared up at him, her lower lip trembling ever so slightly. He made her nervous, but she was still Molly, still happy to see him even when she told him to leave and never speak to her again. He softened his gaze. "You're right, Molly. Your sex life isn't my business. And yes, if you being taken by Moran would keep John safe and alive and as comfortable as he could be, I would watch it happen and do nothing." She flinched slightly at his honesty, but did not back down from him. "But what I said that night before I jumped off this building is still true, and it's always been true. You _do_ matter, and I _have_ always trusted you."

She finally turned away now, hands going to her face. She didn't shake, didn't sob, and Sherlock couldn't tell if she was crying or just shocked, maybe overwhelmed. She turned back and looked at him again, her face bright red but her eyes clear and dry.

"So what happens next, then?"

# # #

"I don't understand."

Sherlock closed his eyes. If ever there was a phrase he hated, vehemently and passionately and with every fiber and ounce of his being, it was those three simple words, _I don't understand_, because surely he could not be the only person who _understood_.

Which was why now he hated himself, because this was one of those rare times when he too _did not understand_.

"He said I needed to see you and learn the truth." Sherlock held a small rubber ball in his hands. This feeling, this situation, was far too similar for his tastes, but there was nothing to be done about it.

"The truth about what, though?" Molly was watching him as he bounced the ball off the metal table-top, catching it in his left hand, transferring it to the right, repeat, repeat.

"Well that's the real question, isn't it?" He looked over at her, hoping to find something, anything, that would tell him what truth he was looking for. "You said John was stable."

"Yes."

"And that Moran has enough painkillers and antibiotics to keep him that way, and keep him reasonably comfortable."

"Yes."

"So what else might he have been referring to?"

Molly bit her lower lip - Sherlock watched her. Her teeth were white and small and her lips were too small, especially without lipstick on, why wasn't she wearing lipstick, she used to wear it quite a lot, hadn't she?

"Did Moran say anything else?"

"Only that if I helped him, he wouldn't hurt me."

"What words did he use exactly."

"Those words."

"No, I mean, repeat exactly what he said, exactly as he said it." Sherlock's hands were moving now, rubber ball in his right hand, held by his ring finger and pinky and thumb as his first two fingers pointed at her, moving along and directing her. She took a breath and nodded.

"As long as you do what I tell you, you won't be hurt. I'll need you from time to time, but come along quietly, and you'll be fine. And if _someone-_" Sherlock's head quirked at the emphasis. "-comes asking, you tell him what you know."

Sherlock looked away. The emphasis was clearly meant to mean if _Sherlock _came asking. But asking what? And what could she tell him, aside from John being alive and in relative comfort?

"I need to go."

"What, now?" Molly looked at him as he stood up, slipping his coat back on, scarf stuffed into his pocket.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I need to think."

"You can do that here."

"No." Sherlock was at the door when he felt her hand on his arm. He turned, looking down at her.

"Please." The sound of her voice was small, mouse-like, Molly-like, and Sherlock wanted to say he was sorry, that right now he just needed to go home and think and see the evidence of John's existence because he'd been out all morning and what he really wanted right then was to go home and curl up in John's bed again and smell the pillow and the sheets and pretend that maybe, just maybe, John was only out at the surgery he'd worked at, was just working and wasn't taken by a madman with a gun and penchant for killing.

But what he said was, "I'll call you tonight." And then he was gone, billowing coat and impossible cheekbones and that scarf with one end dangling too far out of his pocket. Molly stood in the morgue and closed her eyes.


	7. Chapter 6: Truth And Evidence

A/N: ***This is the same note that is being posted on my other 2 chaptered Sherlock Fics, so if you read more than one of my stories, you can just skip over it next time. :D***

Oh. My. GAWD. YOU GUUUUUUUYS. Seriously, I am humbled and grateful and completely amazed by the response I've received from you, dear readers. I wish I could send you all tea and cookies and hugs (to mend all the heartbreak/agony/anxiety I've caused, it seems!), so let's imagine I did. :) Thank you, thank you, a thousand times, thank you.

Also, I believe that my posting schedule is going to every Monday from now on. While I do have quite a bit written in each story, I don't have them edited, which is the slower part of it all. Add in a 5-year-old and my husband being out to sea at the moment, and I've got a full plate. So bear with me, but I promise, I shall try to make it all worth it in the end. :)

* * *

><p><em>Chirp.<em>

[_He gave you no other explanation? -MH_]

[_No. Just told me to find out the truth. -SH_]

_Chirp._

[_I wish I had better to offer you. -MH_]

Sherlock stared at the screen angrily. The ride back to 221B had been too long for his tastes; it was too much time that he needed to figure out what _truth _Moran was sending him after, too much time that he needed so that he could figure out where John was. Once home, he'd raced up the stairs and into the kitchen, glancing around before stalking into the living room, frantically searching for anything that would tell him just what he was looking for.

Mycroft had been incessant in his useless texting, when all Sherlock wanted to hear was the rustling of papers as he searched the flat, trying to find something that would give him the _truth_. His messages had gone mostly ignored except for a curt, [_Sod off. -SH_] after the seventh message had come through since he'd walked back into the flat.

Sherlock was now in John's room, sprawled out on the bed, curled around John's pillow and inhaling his scent, his essence, the very thing that defined John at a cellular level. John, his John, _his John in nearly every way_, and all he had was the scent of him in this bed and the clothes in that closet and the newspapers downstairs that John never seemed to throw away...

Sherlock sat up abruptly. John may not always be the most fastidious of people, but he was neat, and he was generally tidy, and he wouldn't have kept all those papers for no reason.

Sherlock did not remember the stairs, did not remember sitting down after grabbing the stack of newspapers by John's chair. But there he was, sorting through them all. Each paper had something, even a small article, about Sherlock. John wasn't the overly sentimental type - he wouldn't have kept these, fawning over ink and paper. No, these were highlighted, marked in someway. He'd been looking for something... or _someone_...

"What have you been searching for, John?"

_Chirp_.

He pulled his phone from his pocket. [_Have you thought of anything else? -MH_]

[_Where's Moriarty buried? -SH_]

Sherlock nearly held his breath while he waited for his brother's reply. When the phone rang he answered it before the first trill had finished.

"I have no death records for either James Moriarty or Richard Brook."

Sherlock's mouth quirked at one corner. "Interesting."

"Quite. I presume you understand what this means."

"Of course I do. It means this is starting to get more interesting."

"Sherlock-"

"I need to go."

"_Sherlock_." Sherlock paused, phone still held to his ear. "I trust you'll remember that in most cases, discretion is the better part of valor."

"This isn't most cases, Mycroft." And with that, he hung up, launching himself out of the seat and tossing his coat on. The papers were tucked under his arm as he hurried downstairs and flagged a cab.

# # #

St. Bartholomew's Hospital had always been beautiful. Sherlock had felt comfortable and welcomed the first time he'd walked in, Mike Stamford next to him babbling about the newest equipment they'd gotten and asking all sorts of questions about how Sherlock had gotten the permission to use the lab, etc. Sherlock had simply smiled and asked how long Mike had been married. Mike had been startled - he wasn't wearing a ring. Sherlock had quirked an eyebrow and told him the tan line was very faint, but still there, and that he should simply look into getting a new one that would fit his finger since the weight gain. Mike had stopped asking questions.

Sherlock stepped into the morgue entrance and had taken three steps when someone grabbed the back of his coat and began hauling him back out of the building.

"What the-"

"You said you were going to call later!" He yanked out of the grasp and turned to face Molly, in her terrible jumper and grungy old pants and trainers that should have been condemned but that she couldn't bear to part with because they were comfortable. "This isn't the best place for you - there are plenty of people who still remember watching you wheeled in without a pulse!"

Sherlock rushed forward, hands grabbing Molly's upper arms but not hard, not rough, just enough to get her attention. "Where's Moriarty's body?"

Molly's eyes when wide. "I-I-I don't.. what?"

"Moriarty's body. He was on the roof with me, and he shot himself in the head. Where did his body go? And what name was he given?"

"What are you talki-"

"_Where is he_?" Sherlock pulls Molly closer, pressing his face in close to her and he can see it, he can see that he truly does frighten her, and he doesn't care because right now all that matters is John, finding John, helping John, holding and kissing and _telling_ John...

"Sherlock." Molly's voice is soft, and small, and he realizes his grip is tight and probably bruising her so he let's go and steps back. "There wasn't a body. Just some blood, but I thought... I mean, I gave you two pints, I thought something had happened and one broke up there, so..."

Sherlock put his head back, eyes closing. "No body. No evidence that he was there. _Brilliant_." He snapped his head around to the building again. "I need to get up to the roof."

"What?" Molly's eyes were wide. "Sherlock-"

"I need to see it, Molly, recreate it in my mind." He stalked towards the door, knowing she'd follow because she's Molly and Molly might have moved on romantically but she could never turn him away when he needed a friend and he knew that and she knew that. He had barely made it through the doors when he felt her just behind him, steering him towards the stairs.

"You take the elevators and you'll be seen a lot faster." He smiled as she mumbled at him but he did not argue with her.

The rooftop was painfully familiar. He stood by the door for a moment. just looking, observing, remembering. Slowly he walked towards the precipice he had stood on. He looked out, seeing the streets and sidewalks below. Closing his eyes he could see the cab, John getting out and hurrying towards the hospital as Sherlock called him, voice frantic and urgent and _scared_ because if John had been able to see what he did, John would have known and John, John wouldn't have been able to carry out the charade, Sherlock had known that, because Sherlock was the head, but John, John was his heart, and Moriarty had known it and Molly had known it and Sherlock had never realized it until John stepped out of that cab and Sherlock had to stop him from getting closer.

"_Goodbye, John_."

"What?"Sherlock whirled and saw Molly standing there, next to him.

She backed away a couple steps, giving him space. "You.. you said, "Goodbye, John." I'm sorry, I... I shouldn't listen..."

"No, it's... fine." Sherlock looked back down to the street. "I stood here." He leaned down and touched the stone almost reverently. "I said he shouldn't believe in me... I said..."

And then the moment ended, and he was the Sherlock Holmes that Molly knew, was used to, striding across the open roof with purpose and drive. He stopped in front of an old stain that was still a dark, deep red in his mind. He bent down, mini-magnifying glass out and moving over the ground. Molly watched him as he duck walked slowly over the stain, looking through the magnifying glass the whole time. She stayed where she was, not talking, not moving, hardly even breathing.

"Here!" She jumped at the sound of Sherlock's excited voice. She walked over and looked at where he was pointing. "Small stains, where blood dripped. And here, something was dragged over it, like... a foot, or an arm."

He stood up and turned excitedly, eyes wide and mouth grinning like Molly had never seen him do before.

"There was no body because someone moved him before you got up here. Don't you see?"

Molly nodded, not sure if she was seeing what Sherlock wanted her to see or not, because right then it didn't matter, not really. "So what do you do now?"

"Now, I find out who got him off this roof."

# # #

John knew that whatever Moran had given him had not been Morphine. If it had been, he'd still be asleep, and his shoulder wouldn't feel quite like it was trying to separate itself from his body one millimeter at a time, and he would not feel so alert as he did right then.

He looked around as carefully as he could. He didn't _see_ any cameras in the small room, but living with Sherlock had proven that just because you didn't see them didn't mean they weren't there. He closed his eyes and drew in a ragged, deep breath, opening his eyes again and observing.

Aside from his army cot, he saw a small table with nothing on it and no drawers or areas to hide anything. The ceiling had a single bare light bulb in the center of it, tiny pull cord dangling off of it. There were two small windows on the opposite side of the room, high up and too small to fit through even if they hadn't been barred from the outside.

Nothing else. There was nothing on the walls except for dull, dingy old paint that John was fairly certain had once been white, though that time had probably been before he was born. The floor was poured cement. He looked the room over again, coming up with the same things. The only thing he could possibly use as a weapon was the table, but knowing Sebastian Moran, it wouldn't even slow him down - especially with John drugged and/or in pain.

_So, for now, I wait. And... what?_ John frowned at the sparsely decorated room. Sherlock didn't know where he was - of this he was more than one hundred percent sure. If Sherlock had even the slightest idea of where he was, he'd be here by now. And Molly didn't know where he was, because if she did, she'd have told Sherlock, and Option A would still apply.

John decided to try at least stretching his arms gingerly. Carefully he moved them inch by inch, allowing the agony to subside in his right side each time. His muscles were stiff and aching, and he needed to get off the cot. He brought his arms down to his sides again, rubbing his palms over his hips and down to his thighs to get some more blood flow going.

Which was when he noticed a rather peculiar and crinkly-sounding bulge in his left pants pocket. Carefully he slipped his hand into the pocket. Fingers brushed crumpled paper. He pulled it out of his pocket, opening it up.

It was a prescription sheet from the pads the doctors at St. Bart's carried with them. John couldn't figure out when Molly had written it, or slipped it into his pocket. Couldn't figure out when she hadn't been watched by Moran. But he knew then that Sherlock had been absolutely right when he'd said that Molly Hooper was resourceful. In small, nervous looking handwriting, five words that make John's breath catch as he stared at them on a crumpled prescription paper.

_He'll find you. Hang on._


End file.
